A Gunman Rode North

again refused the thought of trying to down the white horse.

He looked around for the dead man's horse and soon found it hidden in an aspen clump below. With the reloaded repeater in one hand, he mounted. The horse broke into movement under the urging of soft moccasin heels and with a tight rein against the bit carried a new, wary rider cautiously back in the direction of his abandoned camp.

Lew Kerrigan crept through the underbrush on noiseless feet, circling around from the south, and stepped over the body of a dead man close by where he had camped. This one turned out to be the 'cowpuncher' who had come into the corral back of the new hotel in Yuma and later, in Phoenix, had grabbed Old Cap by the shoulder and hurriedly spun him back through the slat swing doors of a side-street saloon. He'd foolishly emptied his six-shooter last night, and died for that mistake.

Big Red was gone, as had been expected, led or ridden away by LeRoy, who had intended to recover the powerful horse. The fact that they'd been gone for quite a bit was evidenced in a big black bear nosing around in the torn remnants of Kerrigan's warbag. It gave vent to a startled 'woof' and broke away at a lumbering gallop.

Bear Paw Daly, slipping furtively into Kerrigan's small ranch north and east of Pirtman to replenish his empty food packs, had worn a claw and foreleg skin on his left arm stub to terrify the superstitious Apaches while he hunted unmolested for their gold.

Kerrigan watched the galloping bear and acted instinctively.

'Maybe,' he half-grunted, 'Tom would like another one from me as a wedding gift.'

He swung up the heavy rifle and drove a .45-90 slug of lead squarely behind the camp marauder's left ear.

It rolled forward twice like a big furry rubber ball and then sprawled out flat on its belly. Kerrigan moved over to it, took from his pocket the sharp jackknife, and deftly skinned out the left foreleg and claw.

He straightened with the bloody trophy in his hands—and saw around him the price he had paid for such trivial thinking. Apaches!

There were about thirty of them standing like silent ghosts in a wide, loosely patterned circle that brooked no thought of an attempt to escape. Brown statues with rifles slung over their mostly bare arms. The same rifles Tom Harrow had sold them for raw gold.

A few wore old shirts above dirty white muslin breechclouts and doubled-down buckskin leggings wrapped around with thongs. Loco himself wore a Stetson, property of some long-dead rancher, the brim pulled down hard all the way around. He was easily recognizable from pictures taken during one of his brief stays on the reservation.

They began to close in on moccasined feet that made not a whisper of sound; moving in to where Lew Kerrigan still stood astraddle the body of the bear. The animal was their brother, and old Daly had terrorized them because they thought him to be Bear-in-Body-of-White Eyes.

Ace Saunders lowered the powerful field-glasses from in front of his heavily whiskered countenance and slipped them into the leather case slung from his saddle horn. He rode at a slow, careful walk until he rejoined the others back of a knoll.

'For two cents,' he said more to himself than the others, 'I'd go back down there and horn in.'

'That's what you were supposed to do. All of us, in fact. Try for a crippling shot. You lose some guts since he played Apache and killed your pardner?'

'Don't,' Saunders whispered softly, a queer light flecking his dark eyes. 'Don't ever speak to me like that again, Hannifer, if you want to stay alive. I'd have got him alone after you two decided it was healthier to go running to Pirtman with your tails between your legs. Now for two cents I'd go back and help him. Lew Kerrigan don't deserve a slow burn.'

'What's he talking about, Hannifer?' Jeb Donnelly grunted, looking at the slim, unshaven gunman. 'What's eatin' you, Ace?'

'Apaches down at Kerrigan's camp,' Saunders said coolly. 'They just closed in on him. First wild ones I've ever set eyes on. It put ice up and down my back.'

'Then let's get out of here slow and careful,' LeRoy said. With the instinctive fear of men long familiar with the bloody price exacted by the Apaches, he began to glance around nervously.

'Just as quiet as we can go,' Jeb Donnelly nodded, sheer fright in his own eyes.

'What about Kerrigan?' asked the gunman. 'He's a white man and there's twenty or thirty of them—with plenty of matches.'

'Listen to the man,' grunted Jeb Donnelly to LeRoy and jerked his head at Ace.

'Kerrigan warned us last night this is Loco's country and to get out while we could,' Saunders replied doggedly. 'He tried to tell us and you two wouldn't listen. If he hadn't twisted out of our little ambush this morning—if we'd shot him crippled like we figured and been down there with him at his camp now—those of us not dead would be getting ready to swing by our heels over a slow fire. I haven't got any particular affection for Kerrigan, but dammit, he's a white man. He don't deserve to die like that!'

'He was the one who knew so much about them 'Paches in the first place,' Jeb Donnelly pointed out, and started his horse in a slow walk. 'You two can do what you please. I'm going to soft-walk this white hoss of mine for another mile and then lay the steel in his sides.'

LeRoy said, 'Well, Ace?' and began to follow.

Saunders looked back once and then rode after them. He said, ignoring them and speaking as though to himself, 'I still think we shoulda gone back.'

Jeb Donnelly grinned through the opening around his flabby mouth and pointed furtively to his temple. 'These gents who hire out their guns, Han, they allus got a bolt loose upstairs some'ers.'

'No telling what Tom will do, now that he's lost his only chance at some more of Loco's gold,' LeRoy replied, still continuing his nervous glances at the surrounding timber. 'But that's his lookout. Right now I'm going to put some distance between me and those Apaches. Come on, let's make a run for it!'

They spurred along, the red horse galloping at the end of a lead rope, and once more Ace Saunders looked back. This time toward the ridge where Stubb Holiday hadn't wanted to go, except that Ace had insisted.

He and Ace had ridden the same trails for almost six years, and now the Apaches would strip and mutilate Stubb's body.

CHAPTER NINE

Lew Kerrigan stood facing Loco. He made no move to turn and look behind him. His face was as blankly inexpressive as he could make it, not knowing at what moment brown fingers would seize his hands from behind or a swung rifle barrel would land a stunning blow alongside his head.

Maybe, he thought desperately, I can do it by talking Apache.

'Ninda-hi,' he said slowly to Loco. The Outlaw People, they called themselves.

Loco's lateral gash of a mouth did not change. Kerrigan received no answer, nor did he expect any for a few moments. It was the Apache way. Loco merely stood looking at him. Some Apaches cut their hair across the bottom and let it hang shoulder-length. The others rarely braided as was the custom among plains Indians. The renegade's hair beneath the pulled-down brim of the old hat had been drawn back, covering his ears, and tied at the back of his neck with a buckskin thong.

Kerrigan tried again. 'I have seen the White Eyes' face-writing of you on paper. You are Chief Loco.'

'Yes, he's crazy,' spoke up a voice behind Kerrigan. 'Also Bi-ni-edine, we are, Yew. The Brainless Ones.'

Kerrigan turned slowly and stared in astonishment at Kadoba. It seemed unbelievable that he could be here —in the high country of the Mogollon Plateau. When they had parted the last time the Apache had lain behind the locked steel door of a hillside dungeon, left wrist and ankle chained to a heavy iron ring sunk deep in floor mortar.

Kerrigan had seen few grins on the Apache's face during their two years of confinement. Heaven knew there